


rabbit heart

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F, Hand Jobs, Kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-29
Updated: 2012-05-29
Packaged: 2017-11-06 05:24:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/415208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa has always liked being around women. While Arya weaseled free from every lesson, skiving on needlework and drawing with coals and dancing lessons to pester their brothers and hang about the stables and forge, Sansa had been happy with Jeyne and Septa Mordane, with her mother and all her ladies, she’d loved the hushed voices and soft laughter, the perfumes that made her think of spring and the smooth hands that turned her face to and fro and proclaimed her a beauty already even at seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, each year the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	rabbit heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lit_chick08](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lit_chick08/gifts).



> From the kinkmeme prompt: Sansa/Mya with **[this image](http://gifsoup.com/webroot/animatedgifs2/1266030_o.gif)**.

Sansa has only been kissed by a scarce handful of people. Jeyne Poole, back when they were girls and kissing the backs of their hands hadn’t seemed enough practice. The Hound and his stolen kiss. Her false father and his forced ones. None of them tasted near so sweet as Mya does now, like berries and sugar and salt all curled together, like some delicious dessert Sansa would lick from the bowl before asking for seconds. None of them pressed their lips to hers so warm and soft, none felt just as soft beneath her own hands, curved and belled and scented. Sansa has always liked being around women. While Arya weaseled free from every lesson, skiving on needlework and drawing with coals and dancing lessons to pester their brothers and hang about the stables and forge, Sansa had been happy with Jeyne and Septa Mordane, with her mother and all her ladies, she’d loved the hushed voices and soft laughter, the perfumes that made her think of spring and the smooth hands that turned her face to and fro and proclaimed her a beauty already even at seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, each year the same. Even in King’s Landing she had been fascinated at Cersei, she’d marveled at Margaery and her ladies; her fascination had changed character as she’d grown harder and warier, as one after another had betrayed her trust, but it had been there nonetheless. And now here in these mountains, so high atop the lofty Eyrie that Sansa could touch the clouds, she steals her tongue shyly into Mya Stone’s mouth and wonders if this is why she’d loved all those ladies so.

Mya’s touch is skilled, clever, her body coltish and agile. Sansa knows she’s some experience. She was raised a true bastard girl, as Alayne should have been but as Sansa was not. She’s known a freedom Sansa never has; even Alayne wouldn’t have known such freedom, daughter of a man like Petyr Baelish as she was. But Mya is earthy and unfettered, she does as she pleases and kisses whom she likes. It is Sansa she kisses now, whom she seems to like very much indeed, given her panting breaths, her sweet whimper when Sansa permits her to pull free the ribbons of her bodice, to steal one slender hand inside to brush over her breast and make it shiver into stiffness.

“You are so soft,” Mya murmurs behind Sansa’s ear as she presses her palm firmly to Sansa’s breast, kneading and caressing so as to set things to boiling in Sansa’s belly.

“No more soft than you,” Sansa returns shyly, her hand tentative and then more assured when her mirror caress of Mya’s small breast is greeted with a glad moan. “Is this all right?” she asks, feeling more unsure than she has of most anything of late. This is territory untested, and for all that it feels right and true and perfect, there’s nevertheless something illicit about it, something naughty and daring. Sansa had always been warned of the attentions of men, Septa Mordane had told her in no uncertain terms not to let them touch her as such. But she’d also seen the secret smiles on her mother’s face when her father touched her in a way so seemingly innocent but clearly hinting at some hidden history between them, and she feels a smile much the same on her own face as Mya licks at her collarbones and then the notch between them, her hand still moving in Sansa’s bodice. Besides, Mya is no man. Of everything that’s happened to Sansa since Septa Mordane was killed, this seems by far the least wrong.

Mya pulls back to look at her now, her face soft and wanting, her eyes hot, her mouth bruised. “Anything you want to do is all right,” she says fervently, and Sansa can believe it, so she plucks up her nerve and kisses Mya swift and deep, then finds Mya’s hand with her own, drags it from her bodice to make herself shiver and pushes it down her belly to the ache between her thighs.

“Will you?” Sansa asks. She tries to be ladylike about it – ladylike when she’s pushed someone’s hand down…down _there_ , it’s enough to make her laugh – but she’s unable to stop the cant of her hips, the eager spread of her knees under her shift to welcome Mya’s touch. Mya smiles at her, so wolfish she could be a Stark herself, and curls her hand to make Sansa quake and squeak.

“You’re warm,” Mya breathes. “Wet through your shift.” Sansa’s cheeks flame. Hearing it put to words is far more embarrassing than the action of it, as senseless as that may be. But Mya’s fingers are moving, she’s pushing the cloth deep and rubbing it over every sensitive bit, dipping it into the opening that Sansa has only dared to touch with her own fingers a handful of times and making her feel a little mad with it. Then she hitches Sansa’s shift up, she touches her bare skin, and Sansa does go mad, she’s sure of it.

“Oh,” she says, unable to control her tongue just as she’s unable to control the wriggle of her hips, the clutch of her fingers on Mya’s shoulders. “Oh, oh, oh.”

“That’s it,” Mya says, her tongue in Sansa’s ear the way her fingers are in Sansa’s…in her _cunt_ , and oh, even thinking the word feels scandalous and delicious. Mya’s fingers are in her cunt and it’s all too much, even as Mya urges her on, says, “Yes, come on, pretty girl, let me feel your pleasure, give me your pleasure.” A great trembling takes hold of Sansa, it gathers behind her navel and draws from her toes and fingertips, expanding like some bubble until it pops and drenches her with the best feeling she’s ever had, something that makes the pleasures she’d managed to find at her own touch seem like the palest shadow. Mya kisses her hard, strokes her tongue rough and wet over Sansa’s, works her hand until Sansa quivers into a boneless bliss, feeling too sated to even move. Mya pulls her fingers free, strokes them over Sansa’s hips and thighs and belly, the wetness of her own response drying into a tacky coolness on her skin. Sansa wants to return the favor, but she can do little more than gulp breath like a fish hauled on to land, her hands limp at her sides.

“I’m sorry,” Sansa breathes. “You didn’t get to… I should…”

“You will,” Mya promises. “Later. Time enough for all we want later.” It sends a delicious thrill down to Sansa’s toes. It’s awfully nice to have something to look forward to again.


End file.
